


Falling

by jmflowers



Category: Emmerdale
Genre: Attempts at smut with accidental feelings, Exploring a moment, F/F, Freeform, Second person POV, Taking a break from writing a WIP, or feelings with a dash of physical intimacy, scene continuation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-12-06 21:05:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18225407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmflowers/pseuds/jmflowers
Summary: A continuation of that kiss from the March 20, 2019 episode.





	Falling

**Author's Note:**

> When you’ve watched a two second kiss scene approximately forty times.

**Falling**

It’s been a while, since she’s kissed you just like this. 

She has kissed you, of course, since the accident. She’s barely stopped, really: constantly pressing her lips to your forehead and your cheeks and your hands, always with a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Always with relief softening the edges of her eyes. 

But it’s been gentle, in the two months following your time in hospital. She’s not let her body surge towards your own, not tugged your bottom lip into her mouth as if searching for a moan from the back of your throat. Her hands have been tentative and fluttering, floating around you but never quite settled. It’s fear, that’s crept into your bed. 

This kiss feels like a promise, though. A thank you. A need. 

You can’t contain the yelp that tumbles forth when her mouth meets your own, halfway between surprise and pleasure, the feel of her lips alighting something within you that’s been quiet for too long. Because you do need her and you do want her and surely that is obvious in the way your body keens toward her, following as her shoulders relax and the movement pulls her away slightly. 

She’d kissed you that night after she’d proposed, when the smile that filled your face felt like it might live there forever, when your gaze darted back and forth between the ring on your finger and the glimmer in her eyes. It’d been the urgent sort, the kind that always promised more to come, but you’d winced somewhere in the middle of it and then she’d stepped away completely. You’d wanted to wrap her in your love that night, wanted to shower her with every bit of it you could convey. But that ball of pain at the side of your gut had been persistent, angry at the stretching of your skin when you’d risen on tiptoes to find her lips. She’d tucked you into bed instead, burying her face in the curve of your neck and breathing out the most elated sigh you’d ever heard. 

It hadn’t been like this. There’s a hand curling at the side of your face, her fingers hooking in the curve of jaw just below your ear. She hums when you swipe your tongue across her bottom lip, a sound you know she doesn’t realize she’s making even though you can feel it vibrate into your mouth, your legs turning to putty beneath it. Your tongue seeks out the space between her teeth to explore, your hand at her elbow moving lower and slipping into the gentle slope of her waist. 

She disconnects before you’re ready, a little whimper dipping into the gap between your lips as she breathes out. Her eyes are hooded when she finally opens them, her hips easing towards you even as her upper body leans away. You glide your hands up and under the confines of her blazer, into the warmth radiating through her blouse. A glass clinks somewhere beyond the bar, reminding you that you’re still in the pub, that prying eyes are never very far away here. 

There’s a cellar not very far away, either. You think then of hurried explorations of partially naked skin, of moments spent rising above her arching body in that dusty old chair. You can smell ale sometimes when you kiss her, like your senses have never strayed from those first few months when every second spent with your hands on each other was intoxicating. She’s still intoxicating, still a woman you would stumble down those stairs for. But that’s not what you want now - tomorrow, maybe, but not  _right_ now. 

No, there are too many things between you both right now to rush this. The sheen of her eyes as she’d slid that ring onto your finger has been burned into your mind; those declarations of forever still need to be kissed into the valley of her breasts. Her confession about Lisa hangs heavy over both of you, her carefully constructed walls in shambles at your feet. You’d like to rejoice a little, maybe: celebrate your return to work and the end of your probation. But it’s not the right time for that, either. 

It is the right time to fall back into each other. And so it’s fitting, isn’t it, that you feel like you’re falling when she starts to step away? You follow, arms tensing, your hands fisting in the fabric of her shirt. She raises one of those eyebrows, a look of surprise and challenge and _arousal_ filling her face, a look you hadn’t realized you’d been so desperately missing. You lift your chin and drop it back down, a quick little nod to chase away the flicker of uncertainty that crosses those gorgeous green eyes, nudging your pelvis forward so it bumps against her own. The answering smile you receive is wide and entrancing, her features splitting for a second before she leans into you to steal another, chaste kiss. 

It’s early still: the pub quiet, the boys at nursery for another few hours. The lunch crowd has come and gone, the afternoon dinner rush still a ways off. You should probably be back at the surgery, in case someone decides to call, but this feels important, too. Necessary, really. You skim your hand slowly up her back, fingers tapping at the ridges of her spine. A smile breaks free on your face, too, when she presses closer in response. 

“Upstairs?” she husks, something low and sultry in her voice that erupts in your stomach like a blooming flower. It takes near everything in you not to wrap your lips around hers once more, only buoyed by the knowledge that once you do it’ll be impossible to stop. 

You manage another nod, your eyes drifting to the cupid’s bow of her mouth, your throat dry with the thought of tasting it. That feeling flutters low in your belly, like the twinkle of fairy lights on a summer evening or the static of the television when the broadcast ends. It tumbles over itself before sinking lower, morphing into a pool of warmth that fills the space between your legs. Enthralling, she is. 

She retrieves one of your hands from within her blazer, lacing her fingers through your own and giving a little squeeze as if to say  _I’m here, I see you, I want you, too._ She uses it to guide you, tugging you along with her as she walks backwards through the pub to the door that leads to the sitting room. Her eyes never leave you as she does so, dancing over your face before settling on your mouth, too. 

Your self control gives out when you reach the door, pressing her back against it as your fingers get lost in her hair. Her lips are pliant when you meet them with your own, enough to nearly make you lose your mind when she pulls ever so slightly at your lower lip, the presence of her teeth like some kind of kryptonite to the stuttering tempo of your heart. Your knees go slack when her tongue appears, your body tipping further into her hold. 

It’s like returning to the beginning, sometimes, when she hauls you into the space between her legs with two certain hands at your hips. Like nothing in the world matters as much as the skin between you. You want to lose yourself in it, want to trace maps through all those birth marks with just your mouth steering the way. She moans when you dip your fingers into the waistband of her pants, still miles above the curve of her bottom, still trapped by the blouse tucked in the way, still so deeply aroused in spite of all of it. 

You might not even make it upstairs you realize then, when her thigh is already slipping between yours and the warmth of your body feels like a bloody inferno. There’s a resolve that appears in that thought, one that doesn’t want this moment to be over quite so soon, one that gives you some sort of super human strength so you can pull your mouth away from the nirvana of hers. 

She grumbles when you do, seeking your lips again without looking. Her brow furrows when you lean too far away for her to reach them, those green eyes appearing above the most adorable little pout of annoyance. “Come ‘ere,” she murmurs, tightening her grasp in an effort to urge your acquiescence. Her hands are like fire in that slope just above your waist, the muscles of her thigh meeting your center as you fight to maintain some semblance of self control. 

It’s futile, when such simple contact makes your breath hitch, your lower lip tugged suddenly between your teeth to hold back the moan that begs to escape. She sees it: sees how quickly you’re falling apart, how fast the final pieces of your restraint are unraveling. It makes her pupils dilate, the green evaporating into a sea of black as she swallows. 

“Take me upstairs, Charity,” you plead. There’s a pitch to your voice that you haven’t heard in months, a desperation that vibrates in the middle of your chest. 

She’s swift in trying to fulfill the request, turning the knob of the door with her weight still against it, sending you both tumbling through it with a delightful little giggle. You grab at her waist, trying to remain upright, trying not to kill the moment by going face first to the floor. She rights you with steady hands, pulling you along across the path behind the couch. You don’t manage a look around the room before her mouth is on your own again, not a care for the possibility of Chas at the kitchen table when she shoves her tongue inside. 

It’s perhaps a little wild, to be navigating your way to the bedroom with your eyes closed and your hands once more fisting in her curls, like teenagers who can’t help but get lost in each other. It’s not been often that you’ve done this - the time and space rarely coinciding with all this unadulterated need - but she brings out a piece of you that feels reckless and you love her for allowing you a world in which you can be that woman. Love her for still knowing how to find those pieces after all this time. 

It hits you then, as your back thumps against the wall of the landing, that she hasn’t actually _been_ with your naked skin since the accident. Sure, there were showers where she washed your hair because you couldn’t lift your arms above your head and evenings where she helped you undress before bed, but the love in those moments had been different than the love in this one. She wraps a hand around the curve of your ass, squeezing as she pulls your pelvis against herself. The groan you emit is loud, worthy of the smile that stretches the edges of her mouth as she kisses you some more. 

“Charity,” you whisper in a breath, the ends of your syllables vanishing between her lips. 

“Mhm,” she mumbles, not disconnecting, not slowing for even a second. She palms one of your breasts, moaning herself even though she surely can’t feel the pebbling of your nipple through your jumper. (It’s only then that realize your coat has disappeared somewhere on this journey, though you’re not sure when or how she managed to get it off without you really noticing. Magic fingers, she has. Magic fingers that have pulled your blouse out of your jeans and are slipping upwards to the clasp of your bra.) 

“Charity,” you try again, your voice a little sturdier this time. 

“What?” she asks, her lips shifting from your mouth to kiss a hot trail down your neck. You really do lose your brain for a second when she does that, your thoughts slipping backwards from your consciousness when she sucks on the thumping of your pulse point. 

_Focus_ , you think, _at_ _least_ try _to_ _focus_. 

“Do you... Are you...” The words are mess even before you attempt to speak them, your whole bloody being like a scavenger hunt for the rationale you normally clutch so easily. It takes more willpower than you think yourself capable of to find your way out of the feeling of her mouth on the bare skin of your neck, her teeth knowingly nipping at that ultra sensitive spot below your ear. “The scar,” you finally manage, though it barely makes sense even to you. 

She pauses for a millisecond to mutter, “What?” before resuming the task at hand, her mouth marking a wet path towards your collar bone. 

Your bedroom is so close, just feet down the hallway, and somehow still much too far away. You push gently at her shoulders, trying to regain some of that resolve if only so you can get your point across and calm the nervously dancing butterflies in your stomach. “We haven’t,” you start, losing it again when her hand slips to your thigh, “We’ve not.” 

Charity laughs, fingers tightening, tugging your leg upwards slightly so your heel hooks just below the swell of her calf. “We have, babe,” she husks. 

In your history, yes, you _have_. And there was that cheeky little snog in the car on Valentine’s Day, before you’d been cleared by the doctor for more _vigorous_ _activities_. But - 

God, you can’t even think when she’s touching you. 

“Stop,” you mutter without even realizing, the hallway instantly cold when her hands fly away and her mouth disengages from your neck. 

“Sorry,” she mumbles, twisting her fingers into a worried little knot in front of her abdomen as she steps back. She squeezes her eyes shut, turning her head away quickly. “We don’t have to,” she carries on, her face pinched like she’s terrified to even look, “It’s alright.” 

Your mind is still somewhere in another universe, your breath coming out in hurried pants, but you’re present enough to know that you have to reach for her. That you have to press your hands to either side of her face, to guide her back to what’s been blossoming between you. There’s a vulnerability well and truly in place when she finally opens her eyes, awash with guilt that she may’ve overstepped. 

“I want to,” you whisper, your whole body still ablaze with it, “I want you, now. But we’ve not...” The profession feels trembling, so small and foolish amidst everything else. “We’ve not, since the accident.”

”Oh, Ness,” she flushes, rushing forward to wrap her arms around you again. She burrows in at that patch of skin she’d just been ravishing, her nose brushing against the places where she’s had her lips. Her hold is tight, her hug warm, her hands squeezing as if she’s afraid to let you go. “It doesn’t change anything, yeah?”

It doesn’t, not really. Your body is still your body, still the same one she’s touched and kissed and groped a thousand times before. It still belongs to you, is still something you want to share with her. But it’d be truly foolish to ignore the anxious clench of your muscles, be completely unwise to ask her to share her thoughts and then tuck your own away where they can’t be reached. 

“I’m nervous,” you confess, securing the words in the veil of her hair. 

And you don’t want to be is the most important fact of it all. Truthfully, you’d much rather already be locked away in your bedroom, lost in the expanses of her that are wrapped in the cover of clothing. You would probably give anything to be riding her fingers into some happy oblivion instead of digging at these dark corners, but things such as this are necessary, too. 

The best parts of loving Charity are the safe crooks of feelings. Soft, gentle bends where you can scoop out what aches knowing that she has you, that you’re safe, that you can be bruised without breaking apart completely. _I’ve_ _got_ _you_. 

She’s got you now, taking your hands into hers, guiding the way down the last of the hallway with careful steps. There’s sunlight streaming through the curtains when she nudges the door to your bedroom open, the afternoon light warming every inch of space it can reach until the whole room seems to glow. She lets you go only to close the door so softly it barely makes a sound. Her breath catches when she turns back, her eyes glistening as she looks at you. 

You wonder what she sees in that moment; whether the sunlight has turned into a beaming halo around your head, whether your lips are red and swollen from kissing her so soundly, whether your eyelids have settled lower than normal in this comfortable little state of ecstasy that’s filled you from the inside out. 

Because you look at her - sometimes, always, now - and see the most remarkable woman you never could’ve imagined you would find. A woman who brings forth something in you that you had given up believing existed beyond the pages of a fairytale. And though she may have a front, an obstinate side to her that flares when you least expect it, it falls away when it’s just the two of you. The layers underneath are what you find most extraordinary: the strength and the determination and all the love she exudes in your direction. It’s those layers you can see as she looks at you now, those soft little pieces of herself that she reserves solely for you. 

“You’re so beautiful,” she breathes, easing herself closer and settling gentle hands on your hips. “You know that, don’t you?” 

You think you do, in moments like this one, when she looks at you as though you’ve hung the stars in the sky simply so she can see them. It’s probably impossible to not feel flattered beneath her gaze, to not feel yourself unfurling when all her attention is on you. You kiss her instead of answering, knowing there are no words for the feelings she elicits. 

And it’s easy, this physicality you share. Always has been, even when you were fearful of what it meant. She is a maestro and you the instrument humming beneath her fingers, strummed to life by her talented hands. 

She uses them now to lift your jumper up and over your head, chuckling softly when she drops it to the floor and your hair is left clinging to the sides of your face with static energy. She coaxes it away with a stroke down the length of your ponytail, the smell of her perfume filling your nose as she moves. You push the blazer from her shoulders, satisfied when it slides easily off her arms. There are buttons next: shirts and jeans that are tossed aside until you stand before each other in knickers and bras. 

Your scar feels like a beacon on display, rippled skin that still glows red against your cool complexion. She gravitates towards it, hovering hands that flit in close proximity without touching. She looks to you for approval, like she’ll ignore it completely if you say that’s what you want, but her hands are warm and her conviction tender and so you nod to her that it’s okay. 

You inhale sharply at the first contact, trying not to hiss at the way your muscles still instinctively grit in fear. She watches you as her thumb rubs a soft circle around the puckered perimeter, waiting until your body relaxes into the sensation. She’s held her breath, too, releasing it at the same time you do. 

“How’d I get so lucky?” she asks. And you’re not sure what she means: whether it’s luck at having found each other, or luck at all you’ve survived, or luck that you’re teammates in the face of challenges, but it doesn’t seem to matter if you do or not. The meaning becomes irrelevant when you fall back into each other. 

And this is different, too. That hand hooks at your chin for nary a moment before it’s gone again, seeking out the clasp of your bra. There’s an urgency in your touch that exposes the stretch of time you’ve been without, that gives weight to all that’s changed between you in the passage. 

You are fiancées, now, engaged to be married. A practicing vet again. A couple sharing a secret that no one else can know. A pair of women who’ve reiterated their love and support of one another, that no walls need to exist as a means of protection. You are on the same team, working together to keep Belle where she needs to be for the time being. 

It feels vast and overwhelming, this safety net of belonging. 

It’s awe-inspiring, when she lowers you to the bed, when she rises above you like a goddess returning from the depths of Hell. There is paradise in the fingers that dip into your wetness, coaxing and reaching for the tendrils of an orgasm that will rip through you like an earthquake. It is bliss, this thing you share. 

There is relief in the falling. There is beauty in a kiss such as this. 


End file.
